Le corna sono come i tacchi: slanciano.

First Taste- ENGLISH VERSION

I don’t even know where to start.
Should I start with how I feel? With telling what happened?

I have very few things on my mind, really. Every now and then, just when I force myself to think about something, a voice in my head that does not sound like mine tells me “What the hell have you done?”

I imagine a young woman who calls her best friend in the middle of the night, forces her to get out of bed and meet her somewhere; her friend is almost shocked, the young woman’s face literally is melting in tears. She says, “He … he cheated on me!” And a sob escapes.
Here, to this touching picture I’d add “Yes, but I asked him to do it.”
Another little voice in my head is asking if I think I’m a normal person. Probably not.
Since I am closed like a clam and I can’t come up with an illuminating account, I’ll try starting from the outside. How do I feel physically?
There are various hypotheses about that, and I say hypothesis because at the moment my head seems quite unplugged from my body. There are several options: you could see that I’m not feeling that good, with slow but strong heartbeat, a boulder on the eyelids, a lump in my stomach (isn’t it supposed to be in someone’s throat? Not for me); someone may think that because of apathy I’m not really feeling anything, and all the symptoms above can be easily reconnected to the fact that I have my period and I’ve slept less than 4 hours. But these are irrelevant details.
It would be nice to write something important, any account that would remain in memory, serve me as an official starting point and the others as a random, weird story. Instead I believe that I will keep writing using this hateful tone, metacommunicating on the metacommunication I should do, because it is better for me to put more and more levels.
Now another voice (yes, it’s starting to get crowded in here) asks “Which part of your brain have you burned?” Another one agrees with me that smelling correcting-fluid for years had to have some effect in the end. [[Warning, this product can lead to wicked acts, read carefully the package insert, do not use below 5 years of marriage]]
Am I married? No, but I like to think I’m not too far from it. At least I have those 5 years for real.
At this point someone might wonder whether it is worth continuing to read, while others might be thinking that if they don’t understand what they are reading about they will close the tab (firefox users are welcome) in 2 seconds. Well, be content: I asked my boyfriend to cheat on me.

I am one of those who call themselves Cuckquean. Ever heard about Cuckold (if you don’t know anything, close this blog, the world has still hope for you, keep it up)? Behold, I belong to its female counterpart. More dismissive? I like knowing that my man has sex with other women. No, I don’t have sex with other men. Otherwise we would be an open-couple, not a cuckquean couple.
I would like to stop just a moment and focus on how awkward I find the fact that in the community what describes our couple is my practice. I understand that it’s too long to say -we.are.a.couple.with.him.who.fucks.other.women.and.I.am.ok.with.it- but saying -Cuckquean Couple- is deeply wrong in my opinion. Logically speaking it presupposes that there are two cuckqueans; the term Cuckquean is not plural, which turns in favor of the interpretation that there is only one cuckquean; on the other hand the term Couple comes into conflict with the sentence, and we must interpret if it is referred to ‘cuckquean’ or it is ‘cuckquean’ that is actually referring to the Couple-category.
Anyway, essence doesn’t change.

Around the middle of March, on a regional train full of schoolchildren, my boyfriend and I started talking about cheating. It is a very common issue for me, because you can actually say that it has always been an obsession for me. That afternoon, however, something was different, and we both were racing towards the conclusion that a pair of horns would have adorned beautifully my head. [[“wearing the horns”: This refers to the fact that the man being cheated on is the last to know of his wife’s infidelity. He is wearing horns that can be seen by everybody but him. This also refers to a tradition claiming that in villages of unknown European location, the community would gather to collectively humiliate a man whose wife gives birth to a child recognizably not his own. According to this legend, a parade was held in which the hapless husband is forced to wear antlers on his head as a symbol of his wife’s infidelity. Whether or not this actually happened is unknown but the phrase has survived (Wikipedia: Cuckold)]]
Let me be clear right now: I am not sub towards him. Being humiliated doesn’t get me off, the only pleasure that I gain from what to me is a poisoned stab, is that I can return the favor.

So, on that train suddenly it became clear that I was interested in the issue. That it excited me. “Excited” as in “Intrigued.”
A quick paragraph about my life story will clarify why I felt enlightened at that time: as a child my hero was my best friend, wicked as hell, loved by her friends who were jealous that she used to flirt with me (and yes, I mean that kind of flirting);
my first real crush was on a guy who was so obsessed with his ex that during our dates he did nothing but talk about how he missed her. – Our first carnal knowledge was for me the beginning of a trauma that would have haunted me until the maturity age-;
my second crush, contemporary to the first, was on a guy met on the Internet about whom I still don’t know age/name/provenance/I have doubts even for his gender, who had a crowd of little fan girls;
the third came shortly after the first but always contemporary to the second, it was on another guy known on the net that after months of flirts and calls I found out he was in a story with a girl in the forum where we had met (imagine my apocalyptic shock);
then my first real boyfriend, loved to madness and destroyed with equal enthusiasm; there are few literary pieces that deal with such a rage among young lovers;
then my period of sexual confirmation began, I started going out only with people who live on the other side of the rainbow, and I shouted to the world (but first to my parents) my homosexuality -> during this time I discovered that women really know how to be bitches, and almost at my 19 birthday I decided to pass again through the rainbow;
all this has been followed by interesting months where I rediscovered the guy of my second crush, who AGAIN told me just a bit too late that he was with someone (I fake my apocalyptic shock);
at the same time a guy from the other side of Italy with whom I spend 10 days of paradise and 3 months of hell;
an ambiguous relationship with my best friend of that time who was working on my first boyfriend (the one with whom I had bipolar violent rampages);
and finally a poor bastard who had just left his girlfriend and was used by me in an unworthy manner to soothe my wounds.

Do you want the common denominator? They all had other fishes to fry (except my first boyfriend, but that’s another story) and I always had to run like damn to earn a bit of attention.
You could say ‘repetition compulsion’, but for those who don’t like technical terms we can say that competition has become a drug for me. And it has become what gives me self-esteem, what strengthens my character, what made me think at the end of every relationship: “All things end, and I survive.”
Now my relationship goes on with none other than my first boyfriend, with a flashback worthy of a 6$ harmony (I don’t want to belittle the relationship, I’m crazy about him – and maybe I’m actually crazy-, it’s just that I’m in a fuc**** bad mood at the moment). It was with him that I had that interesting talk about my new ‘hat’.

A ride on the internet told me that I would make a nice Cuckquean. From what I’ve read, 90% of those who have decided to talk about it have set the practice as part of the sub/dom relationship with their Master, were started to it by him, or created this torture on their own.
I say ‘torture’ because contrary to what usually happens to the male counterpart “I enjoy seeing her enjoying others”, the point here is another one. The point is the humiliation of being betrayed, having to endure that another woman touches what is more precious in our world, the fear of him turning around and going somewhere else without us. It’s like playing with fire, every time there is a risk that out there someone way much better than us in everything is waiting, and maybe we even long for it. It is considered an ‘Edge Play’, and it is not recommended for couples not consolidated and not exceptionally in love.

I’ve studied the situation from March to June, thinking about it all the time, anywhere. The question with which I fought was “Do I really want it?” The fear of making a mess and not being able to go back, to crack something that would no longer be straightened. The blind trust that he would not leave me, but the fear of not being able to look at him without thinking “those hands, those eyes, that body, all gave attention to someone else”
I talked about it to the point that I was able to joke about it, to get used to that idea. Almost like waiting for the Cinderella’s carriage.

But yesterday he said that after an entire night of “cuddles” with a friend of his, he might be able to do it.
The feeling? I dissipated the blood on the floor like electricity. Minutes of pure excitement, followed by a calm state of morbid interest (it seems an impossible paradox?And yet …) and my voice saying in a firm tone “If you can make it happen, do it.” The last glimmer of clarity led me to ask him not to go directly to sex, but to stop at some stage before.
She knows that he has a girlfriend but she doesn’t know about me being a cuckquean. He is making her a sub (he’s more like a mentor than a master) since she has ‘natural talent.’ I’m quite angry with her because knowing that I exist and being almost his sub isn’t stopping her from being all coquettish, and this is making me insanely jealous.

By the way, he went out with her again. And again. And again.

Saying I was nervous is an understatement: I watched 3 movies in a row, I ate nothing and spent the rest of the evening walking restlessly from one room to another. Suddenly I hated him for being out having fun, I would have wanted to tell him to go home and call me, I would have taken the car and driven there. But I forced myself to wait, because I was determined to overcome the difficult initial phase in order to really understand if this “thing” was right for me.
I’ve waited until he didn’t answer me on the phone anymore and I got nervous because I knew why. I forced myself to sleep, it took me over half an hour and finally I lost consciousness on an unspecified part of my iPod. Night without dreams and I woke up with palpitations at 6 am. I knew that because I had just watched the time on the phone. Suddenly my stomach tightened up so I looked better at the screen, and there was not even one message. Which meant only one thing: he was still with her.
Another similarity? It was like waking up from anesthesia before the operation was over.

For just a second I had this vision of him between her legs, I got anxious and I opened the window, letting the cold air in. I wrapped myself in the sheet and started to buffer my brain with loud music, trying to stop the spasms in my legs. Another clinical diagnosis might determine that I was having a panic attack. That’s where I started to treat myself with apathy. I am sure that on some scream by Linkin Park my face was able to contract in a weeping’s grimace, but I didn’t have the time to cry because he finally sent a message. The answer evidently showed to him that I was awake at that impossible hour and so he called me.

As he began to tell me the details (requested by me of course) I was already in complete apathy: I listened with interest, laughed at some scenes, commented on a few sentences and congratulated him because if it were me I would have fucked him like mad.
They didn’t know each other and yet she was already totally lost into him, begging him to fuck her.
He said sincerely that he would have rather spent the night with me, but I found out that I feel insane thinking about him with her. I was able to see some public photos of her on facebook, and I can’t even say that I don’t like her because I would go with her too without problems (just for the record). She seems to have a more mature body than mine (no-chest, no-hips) and I cannot deny that this humiliates me. There is this silent war between me and her, and I’m so infantile that I left on him two hickeys just because I wanted her to see them.

I apologize, I’ve still haven’t written the goal of all this mess: to trigger my competitive instinct (something like “you’ll be so dazzled by me that you will not be able to focus on anything else”) we opted for the fusion of jealousy and instinctive sense of abandonment. I love that he can go with others, but still thinks that I’m everything that he wants; I love that his love for me is confirmed in such a dramatic way, right after my painful catharsis; I love that at the end of everything I have not only confirmed his love, but I also feel reborn after I’ve won the battle against the lover.
This situation doesn’t turn me on, all this cuckquean-thing doesn’t involve me sexually, and this makes it even more difficult. His position is far from being obvious or easy, and I really appreciate his ‘work’. The fact that he gets a clear personal pleasure is just another painful detail that I add to the recipe.

So, he spent the night with her and actually did what I had seen in my hallucination. Let’s say that they were doing petting, but she was the only one receiving attentions. It just depends on me to choose whether to continue to the last step (the sexual intercourse) or to stop here. My determination tells me that I must go on, because I was already prepared to the fact that the first times were the hardest, but I cannot deny that it’s hard to stay calm. In just few days because of three ‘innocent’ references I have lost sleep and appetite.
I know that I want to go on, but curiously, I’d need a clone of him during his dates in order to hold myself back from snapping. I would like a second xK00 hugging me and telling me “He is an idiot, I know, he shouldn’t have believed you,” while his real one is out with HER.
I feel guilty and embarrassed by what I want, the fact that for me it’s not a matter of sexual excitement just makes things more complicated.
I listened to him telling me about hot and painful stuff and I kept telling myself “You asked for it.”

I go through the stages of the ‘trauma’ at a breakneck speed, I would like to hurt myself to get his full attention, I regret it because I had his attention to begin with, and I realize that what I want is the attention of the him who bites her breasts and wants to open her legs. I wish that he had suddenly stopped and materialized next to me whiIe I was sleeping without peace. I wish he had felt so bad after receiving my answer to his “Here I am,” that morning at 6 am. I almost wish that to my “Go to her,” he had replied “No, you’re still too young and cannot be trusted alone.”

A part of me is already more relaxed because this desire to blame him is only a rapid phase of blaming myself, which will be a rapid phase within the “I want him near me”, within the “The next time you’ll go with someone I’ll do something so grand that you will want to eat your eyes for not being there.” Everything is ok. I have just to survive to this.

My boyfriend has touched that girl. My man has touched another girl. MINE and OTHER .

Indeed, being a cuckquean is an amazing experience!
Thank you for reading my translation (hoping it isn’t so bad after all). If there are parts which are difficult to understand or which are completely wrong, feel free to tell me.